


Fresher Waters

by Anonymous



Category: College Football RPF
Genre: Alcohol, College Football, Joey Freshwater - Freeform, Johnny Manziel - Freeform, Kevin Sumlin is mentioned, Lane Kiffen - Freeform, M/M, Mike Pettine is mentioned, Nick Saban is mentioned, Party, shitpost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 04:10:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16233932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: This was a dangerous, stupid idea. They were both full of those, it seemed. Two crazy, volatile men making a mistake because the bigger the risk, the bigger the adrenaline rush it brought them.





	Fresher Waters

This was a dangerous, stupid idea. They were both full of those, it seemed. Two crazy, volatile men making a mistake because the bigger the risk, the bigger the adrenaline rush it brought them.  
For Lane, it was rebellion. Here he was, sharing a drunken night with the man who once brought down a giant. The man who reduced Lane's boss to a sulking rage, and showed him once again the feeling of defeat. And how mad would Nick be, knowing that Lane was right there with him, sharing a classic fireball-induced mistake? It was electrifying.  
But here he wasn't Lane, at least not anymore. He was Joey Freshwater, a young, bright-eyed oil investing intern. He knew his look betrayed his age, but they were both too drunk to care. He let his persona be an extension of his former self, back when he was still an idealistic, enthusiastic college kid. For a second, he almost believed it.  
Johnny was chasing one last rush. It was always one last rush. He had quit drugs and chronic drinking long ago. He'd gotten his life together. But like a moth to a flame, he was still drawn to parties, basking in the warm heat of the moment, even if it got him burned. Maybe he liked getting burned.  
They had caught each other's eyes in the strobe lights of the party, caught up in the rhythmic swaying of the almost-too-loud mumble rap blasting throughout the apartment. Who's apartment? Neither knew, and neither really cared. A party was a party, and it was just second nature to both to spend nights at one, reliving past mistakes one last time before they die, or worse, finally settle down.  
They each stalked towards the other, Kiffen wanting the rush of euphoria that came from defying his former boss. That was why he left in the first place. He and Nick were two very different people. Both were skilled at what they did, but they went about it in very different ways. Saban was a practical, cold machine, taking apart his opponents with the precise attention of a practiced engineer. His foes knew what to expect, but like a beaten animal, they still cowered in fear when the time came. Even his outbursts were planned, precalculated, to bring out the only outcome he would accept. Utter, brutal, unquestionable victory. Lane was an impulsive, unpredictable risk-taker. His emotions and his desires drove his every action, making his opponents feel like they were facing a wild, rabid animal in its own territory. They'd never know what to expect, or how to prepare. They only knew that they were in deep danger when they saw him.  
That was what drew him to Johnny. They were one in the same, both uncontrollable, both truly free in the best and worst ways possible. No one controlled Johnny Fucking Football. Not Sumlin, not Pettine, not anyone. Since he'd moved to Canada, people thought he relaxed, but even the frigid winters of the icy north couldn't cool his fiery hot head. Maybe he'd had some underperforming games, but that was fine with him. The last thing he wanted was to fit expectations and become predictable. He wanted to win, but not in the empty, passionless way Nick Saban did. He refused to lose his energy.  
What caused Johnny to throw out the bottle in the first place was that people began expecting it. When he started to hear things like "Oh, there's Manziel, drunk to practice again. Some people never change, haha", he knew he wanted to quit. People expected it of him. He was becoming what he feared most; boring.  
This was unpredictable. Grinding up with a familiar-looking man who was clearly older than he said. He didn't care, they were both adults. This is the rush of freedom he craved. It reminded him of that old image from the internet of two spidermans (spidermen?) accusingly pointing at each other. That was his screensaver, for a while. What really brought him into that breathy, sensual moment was that although he didn't think he knew this familiar stranger, he knew his soul well, because it was the same as his. They were kindred spirits, both floating free in a wild world of flashing lights and shitty Soundcloud playlists. He knew that this man, Joey, wouldn't try to change or control him, so long as he did the same. They'd both be crazy together. And he loved it.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, Lane woke up in a hotel bed with the familiar bite of a sharp hangover and a messy, disheveled room. He leaned over to the nightstand to grab one of those overpriced hotel bottles of water, and his phone for his scheduled tweet about #theFAU. But to his surprise, his hand landed instead on a small bottle. It was a tiny, cheap flask of fireball with a note attached. He read it.

'You know what they say, nothing works better than the hair of the dog that bit you. That was a hell of a night, let's do it again sometime. ;) -JFF'

Below was some phone number he didn't recognize. He laughed to himself. "Joey Freshwater strikes again. I'm looking foward to it, Johnny. I'm looking forward to it."


End file.
